12 May 2014

One Hundred and Seven


Nothing you have ever imagined, are ever imagining, or will ever imagine, is ultimately real.

* * * *
There must be more to life than this, s/he hoped, despaired, wondered, divined.

* * * *
Mother Nature just cannot seem to let well enough alone,
Ever sculpting, whittling, smashing her little pile of dust.

* * * *
Always rushing, rushing into the future.
Another goal, another finish line, come and gone.
What next, Kimosabe?

* * * *
Time, what a concept.

* * * *
Absurdity rules.

* * * *
Nothing lasts forever.

* * * *
It is you, you alone,
Who must discern your way
Out of the jungle maze in your mind.

* * * *
What can you possibly know
Beyond the limits of imagination?
All beliefs, all speculations, are meaningless.

* * * *
The point and purpose of so many existences
Seems to be to ceaselessly bludgeon and bother others
With all the bile of twisted anger and angst they can possibly muster.
How pointlessly, exhaustingly meaningless  is that?

* * * *
What about the human drama is worth saving even if you could?
Really nothing more than a pernicious pandemic compelled by vanity,
Consuming, manipulating, destroying, anything and everything in its path.